


Sycamore Hymns

by lechatnoir



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, after life fic, asldjf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They watch as the rebellion grows, watch as they are reunited, see how their loved ones - brothers and sisters, wives and husbands - they are torn apart and reunited and the Sycamore tree hums as she watches from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wingless Hymns

i.  
When Sura falls she remembers the ever present scent of wood and steel and the last thing that comes to her mind is her beloved husband.

(She is too far gone to the afterlife to even feel his arms embrace her once more, collar digging into blood soaked flesh as she tumbles out of the cart and she is as graceful in death as she was in her life)

She watches and waits, visits him in his dreams to set path forward for the gods have held her council for far too long, have taught her and shown her everything that was to come and she had hoped to sabotage it someway, make it so that they will not die - her husband whom they now call Spartacus and his followers and friends. 

(She waits, surrouned by the walls and sounds that ring of freedom and yet she doesn't know where she is, until the river courses through her and she knows now - she is in the afterlife, with no one but the wilted and dying flowers to keep her company as she watches over them all.) 

She thinks she is alone when she meets two women - Diona and Melitta and she learns of their tales, of how freedom was a price that was paid by blood and the beating rays of the sun upon ones' back, while your eyes pleaded and promised silent promises to the one person who wished to see you whisked away from the hurt and the demons that paraded behind your eyelids whenever you closed your eyes - _you can feel them writhing and thrusting inside of you_ \- she learnt that love was powerful enough to destroy, to conquer, a wine so sweet that it may turn into poison.

That was their price to pay, for a freedom that was never theirs to have.

She is a wraith wrapped up in the fabric of her dress, collar worn and blood stained yet she does not care, she continues to stand vigil, Melitta and Diona with her as they watch over those who are yet of the living. 

ii.  
When Barca falls, it is the sound of rain and uncertainty clouding his mind as the water rushes through and engulfs him, blood dancing with delight to be free of a vessel that has known nothing but the sting of the arena and the gentle caress of Pietros. 

(He thinks he arrives to the afterlife in a flurry of feathers and the distant 'coo'ing of an old friend. Instead, he is greeted by a dark haired woman with eyes that are keen and kind and sharp at the same time and there is an old worn ribbon tied to her thigh that he has seen Spartacus caress and wear to its thread. )   
"Where am I?"  
"The afterlife."  
He nods and there's a soreness where his neck is, but he doesn't complain, only sits down next to her as they watch the living breathe and fight and some fall to their own desires that end up corrupting them to no end.

He is seething rage when he sees what has become of Pietros, and yet when he arrives he cannot do anything but to laugh like a little boy whom he has not seen in quite some time and kiss him on the lips - wine and honey and he thinks he can accept that he is long and gone from the world and yet he cannot hold onto Pietros as tightly as he would like to. 

(Pietros laughs and cries and tells him that he's there, that the Beast of Carthrage had no need to worry - his bird was home. They were home.) 

iii.  
When Duro falls, he has a smile on his face and he can almost hear a roar of a wild beast that seems to piece the skies with its cries of agony and lament. 

(It seems to call to him, 'Brother brother' and yet he cannot go back, he can only move forward, to a beckoning light that seems to promise hope and freedom and a much needed rest, for his back seems to hurt and he would rather sleep away the pain.) 

When he opens his eyes once more, there is a woman who smiles kindly at him and tells him of the brother who seems to be a harbringer of death and insanity , whose smiles seem to lack rationale and it's as if he's a wild dog set loose on everything and everyone. Duro watches as Spartacus leads the raid against the calvary that is sent to thrwart their rebellion, watches as his brother smashes the Roman's face into the surface of the rock and he thinks that twice is enough, but Agron continues and it is enough to send chills shivering up his spine. 

Duro watches with Sura, watches and greets the fallen with them, sees how they swell in numbers and rank, see what becomes of the beast that his brother has become - all emotion and no logic behind his thoughst, just senseless carnage. 

iv.  
Sura has become a bit of a mother and a little sister to those who watch with her, crowing and cheering as the gladiators turned from Batiatus and the Romans and they laugh and jeer with her, for as they learned, the afterlife was quite a lonely place for one who was in tune with the gods themselves. They think that she is one of the Fates, but yet she only laughs and says that when she was still living , she was considered to be one whom the gods seemed to beckon her ear to listen to and spill a bit of knowledge of what was to come. They never quite painted the full picture, only a few spots here and there and the outcome of it all was something that she did not expect to witness, with red serpents and dark things crawling from pits to devour them all. 

(They question sometimes why they, the gods - turn from fucking favor but she tells them to wait, perhaps they will change their minds. She does not begrudge them when the gods do in fact, seem to fall to deaf ears and ignore their pleas and cries for freedom and hope) 

They greet Varro with clasps on the back and a smile from Sura - they break words and she finds him to be a man of his word and she has his eternal thanks in looking after her husband.   
(They have taken to watching over Aurelia and Janos while the others go and learn how to trick time into giving them more memories that they so seemed to lack when they were still living)

She holds his hand as they watch the rebels invade Rome and Aurelia's capture, and yet when she appears, they run to her as if Sura has known the woman all of her life and Varro has never seen her before and yet she stands as a goddess before him once more. She is gentle smiles and bitter words as she watches with them , their son growing into a fine young man away from the carnage and death strikes that seem to dog the shadow of the mighty republic that stood before them at one point in their lives. 

(She smells of blood and wood and water but she is Aurelia and she wastes no time learning the taste of her husband's lips against her own ) 

v.  
The rebellion swells in numbers and they watch their brothers and sisters (Duro lets out a crow of joy when his people join his ranks, and he thinks that Saxa is a fierce wolf in the shape of a woman, that Nemetes is a sly fuck who seems to know where freedom lies, Sedullus a man who does not know the value of his own actions, Lugo a man who is like a lion - small in size but has a roar that can pierce the heavens if he so wished it. ) continue on the fight against the Republic, see the serpents that lie in wait, see the nimble hands that spin the thread of fate to keep the course of events running.

(Chadara is a sweet girl , one who shows more wit then one may have thought at first, and she is greeted with wine and flowers with feathers to adorn her crown - she is nails and flighty laughter but she soon learns of those who have fell before her, of Melitta and Diona, and she hold no anger towards Mira for she was doing what she thought was just - it was as simple as stealing a map as it was to fire an arrow and kill someone's life. It never was quite easy). 

When Mira falls, she wakes up to a mighty roar and a flask of wine as a crown of flowers is placed upon her head by Sura and Aurelia and she wonders who the woman is who smiles at her like a sister and then it clicks into her head - she is filled to the brim with apologies and worry but Sura only waves them off and says that she did what she must have in her situation. She was thankful, for the woman who rose and struck the first blow, who carried the weight of the rebellion on her shoulders as well as her husband's, who managed to carry him as well, piece together the jagged bits to the best of her ability so that he could rise and carry on the flame, to smite the republic. Sura smiles and they watch as Vesuvius become a blood soaked battle ground - they crow in glee and roar to the skies of the after life when Naevia cuts down Ashur, watch as his blood feeds the mountain, watch as Mira's casket of vines becomes the first attack, swift and silent just like her arrows when the four leaders venture forth and sneak into the Roman camps, and they laugh like demons as the fire blazes from the skies like the wraith of Mars.

vi.

Oenomaus is greeted with the familiar face of his wife and he thinks he has done all that he has for the rebellion - he watches Gannicus fight and drink and sing on top of procariously dangerous places about how his 'Cock Rages On' but he shares the wine and he watches their numbers swell and grow with a rapid monstrocity that can only be rivaled by Pluto's collection of souls of the damned in a day. Melitta is a sunbeam on a cold winter's day but there are no harsh words between them, only the memory of faint kisses and the lost chance of what could have been had they been a free man and a woman instead of slaves to the House of Batiatus. 

vii.

Duro keeps a constant vigil over his brother - he thinks that Nasir is someone whom he'd like to meet, even more so when his brother starts to fall for him and it's as if there is a tether of hope between the two of them that manages to keep them together and a simple gold string seems to keep them tied to each other, wine and pirates be damned. 

He watches as they fight, wants to kick Agron for being a stubborn mule ('Or perhaps he is a fucking sheep, bleeting away at nothing '), wants to rip his hair out as they part ways - watches as his brother marches to his death, watches as he is cut down and his breath seems to freeze, seems to suffocate in his already dead throat.

(It cannot be, he has to live, that stupid fuck.) 

When Agron opens his eyes, he is surrounded by his brother and all those who have fallen - he sees Donar and the tears spring to his eyes because he never meant to forget the man who had oftentimes become the second brother to him, back when he has lost Duro - Donar was the one who reigned him back in, who smacked him and told him to focus instead of giving over to mindless bloodlust. His eyes search for Duro, but there is no need because Duro is already there, cradling him and he feels the tears - hot and wet against his skin and he thinks he can stop running now, can stop fighting because there is no need to - he had parted ways with Nasir, and perhaps the man will find someone to share his living days with.

(It is true, he did not go back on his word. His heart did not beat for another, only Nasir) 

Instead of joyous hugs and merriment, he is greeted with frigid silence from his brother - at first, he is angry, but he soon realizes that there is more to Duro's silence then a simple tantrum.

"What troubles you, brother?"

"Your fucking stupidity, Agron."

"Speak fucking sense, Duro."

"Ever the bleating goat - fuck, Agron. You leave Nasir behind, and you think he will live to be happy? He will be tormented once they are done with Crixus and Naevia! He will rip apart every inch of the Roman army or die trying in attempt to save you but what good will it be if he is struck down from the world of the living with you not by his side? You swore to each other that nothing could wrest the other from your own arms , not even the gods and you are going to fall to a mere stab at your side, brother? Go back to him, for we will be reunited soon."

He doesn't know whether or not to cry or to scream but he is brought back into the living with the feel of cold water piercing his skin and the prsence of wood on his back.


	2. Legions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their war cries surpass the wail of winter winds and the smothering smoke of a thunderstorm that is about to flood them all with blood and the war cries of a rebellion that refuses to die.

i.

Agron wakes and it's as if he has been trampled underneath the hooves of a thousand horses and yet he cannot understand - he sees his brother, the stupid fuck and a woman with raven black hair who smiled kindly at him and he thinks she smells of saltwater and the mountaintops, with the wind howling in his ears as there is a roar and he appears to be thrown back into the realm of the living with a violent lurch - he doesn't know if it is the blow to the head, or the blood loss but his wrists throb as if the skin was burned , as if he was branded once more. 

(He thinks of his brothers eyes, the smile and the punch that he received before realizing that he is too hasty to die so soon.)

They raise him and baptize him with water and yet he screams and kicks and snarls like a wolf - he thinks of Saxa when they first liberate the ship filled with his brothers and kin of those who are East of the Rhine, for she bared her teeth and let no man go without a proper quarrel to know that she stands above any man - he laughs, bitter and cold and spits in the Roman's face, before they get the wooden nails and drag his body down onto the cross. 

(He tries to stifle his screams but he cannot for the metal is cold and biting and unforgiving and his skin is soft and tender, just like the newborn that he had to witness the birth of not too long ago.) 

ii. 

When Donar falls he is greeted with the best wine that he has had to drink in ages, and he watches Agron from where they all are, herded by the prophet witch of whom controlled Spartacus even to this day, despite being dead for so long, her presence absent from dreams or thoughts and still she burned as bright as she does now as her funeral pyre had (or so he had been told, when asked for the tale of a woman and the name Sura that seemed to fall from their leader's tongue if and when he was reminded of an old ghost's presence lurking in the shadows of one's mind). 

He sings the songs of his brothers and Oenomaus even joins in, drink in hand as they watch the rebellion scatter like frightened birds and yet there is no fear in their eyes as they march to their deaths, trumpets blaring and wolf skins shedding as the Romans stand in formation of a battling ram, opening the floodgates of hell in a valley barren of no water nor food, nor shelter - only the cold winter winds that seem to howl with delight. They watch as the rebellion rises and falls, divides and converges once more, regrouping with the others and the separate paths all flow together like the bloodlines of the trees whose roots seem to have been uprooted and burned and yet they still thrive, with new lives coming in to take place of those who have been struck from their legion, from their ranks.

(The wolves survive yet another blizzard, or so he learns, for they greet a group of women, frozen and pale as death herself if she was to be taken on the coat of winter, blood splattered on their arms and hands as sacrifice to their gods and he laughs and laughs because the gods do not care.)

iii.

The women who die are meek and quiet, yet there is a silent resilience to their skin and backbone - they survive the winter winds, cold and harsh and unforgiving - unheading to no one, just like the gods that they pray and give sacrifice to for no one seems to notice the gods anymore, not with the demons that come lurking about, red serpents dragging everyone to the bottom of a pit with no end, with death and destruction and fire raining upon them. 

Sura greets them with the words "Sister" and "Brother" on her lips as she brings them close to her and they watch, forever frevently whispering prayers to the gods that seem to never hear, never glance at the souls and hordes that gather at their doorstep, like sparrows to seek shelter from the harsh cold winter and yet they stay, in a circle of neverending continuity , blood flowing and knives sharpening for the next round of bloodlines to be striken and written down into the pages of the wind in the books of history that no one will remember, not even those that survive for history will wash them out, cleanse them out from the memories of the world and they are to remain in the shadows, forever forgotten, the whispering birds. 

iv. 

When Crixus dies he is greeted like a god, with Barca's laughs echoing and biting and warm as he hugs him like the brother that he is, the Beast of Carthage and the Undefeated Gaul. Sura smiles at him and he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him - he wonders if Naevia is here, if she has fallen under the hands of the Romans themselves as well and yet she is nowhere to be found.

"Your woman fights still, but I am afraid you are her passage to life, for she is to go back to Spartacus with your head." the witch speaks and yet he can only nod, can accept the comforting arm that holds him - she is far smaller than him and yet she stands above them all, watching as the gods jeer and piss on them all . 

(He watches Sura, watches her be a mother and a sister, a teacher and a learner. She tames them all and yet lets them run free, lets them roam wherever they please, in these fields of copperheads and poppy flowers, with rivers that stretch on as far as the eye can see, with wine that never stops flowing, time never moving and the ever present roar of a rebellion that has yet to be quelled by the Roman legions.)

He thinks that she is a woman of many masks, and yet, he finds no malice towards her, not when she smiles at him and sets her eyes to the course of events that have yet to follow - she follows Naevia like a falcon may a mouse, never taking her eye off of her, not as they watch as the rebels make a pyre and there is a warmth that floods him as he watches himself burn, watches Naevia's face never break her stoic facade, not as Nasir and Saxa flank her sides, like dogs protecting their master and yet he knows she would do the same for them if the situations were reversed. 

He laughs and drinks and cries and wishes that he can calm Naevia down as she breaks in the confines of her tent - _it is no longer yours, only hers now_ \- piercing wails that turn into silent sobs as her frame shakes and he thinks she is a hurricane about to burst into a million little dew drops and needles but he cannot touch her, cannot hold her close to him, cannot whisper of promises of a better tomorrow ( _no one can_ ) , he can only watch and seethe and rage and become an animal - if he were younger that is - he learns to breath again, learns to wait and listen as Sura guides his hands and it's as if he can almost touch Naevia, almost swallow her up in the safety of his arms and he is a breeze of warm air that wraps itself around her in the lonely tent.

(Saxa visits her, bringing wine and a extra cup for the woman who takes it with a nod of gratitude and yet she doesn't leave, she only stays and holds vigil, holding Naevia's hand as the woman slowly let herself steel up and suit herself up - locking away her emotions, putting on a mask to face the legions that seem to be circling above them like vultures in a desert. Saxa smiles and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead, as one might to a younger sister, and whispers the words - "Make him proud, kill Roman fucks, like how he taught you to." before leaving, and she is greeted by the presence of Laeta and Kore and the little bird Sibyl as well, who offer words of comfort and yet she says that she does not need them, that she is with Crixus as he is with her, that they'll see each other soon). 

v.

The fire burns and it's as if the heaven's are erupt with a rage of fury. Those who watch with Sura are a buzz like angry hornets for they cannot wait, cannot see why time does not move quickly and see the end to the Roman legions. Yet she tells them to be patient, as her husband does to those who are still drawing breath.

They are wolves standing on top of a mountain of corpses - they now only need to light a fire to burn brighter then the fear that the Romans seek to install into everyone. They hear of a man called Pompeii and rile up against each other, crowing and snarling and it's as if it is a volcano in the making, waiting to take down a city in its waves of lava and smoke, coal and ash and vengeance.

Mira is a storm of flowers and arrows and blood that still stains her face, and she holds a constant vigil with Sura and Crixus. She watches and waits, sees Saxa rise and conquer and have her heart played and she hears the bitter words that she graces in Gannicus' presence concerning the little girl Sibyl.

(She cannot stop her hands from shaking and yet Sura places a calming hand on her shoulder before squeezing it gently - _it will be alright_ ) 

The blizzard and fire that storm the rebels leaves them nothing short of hopeless and yet, Saxa grins as she hears the familiar laughter in the winds as the Romans scatter and fall while she stands on top on the mountain crevice, glaring down on the scrambling worms in their armor and red capes and she lets out a laugh, loud and booming and it rings along with the wind's.

"You are never far, are you Mira? With your fucking arrows."


	3. Sacred Sands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They light a pyre that blazes through the night, the moon gleaming with a smile at those wolves and lions, those who roar and howl the names of the departed, a fire building in them, a storm coming for them - they live and breath and the departed clasp hands together and pray - to gods and demons, to the winds and to the sacred sands that they once stood upon, for the shadow of Rome was upon them all, and they had a fire to light to banish it from this realm.

i.

It is the crackle of a fire that burns up to the heavens, to that of the afterlife, to that of hell and the damned pits in between, of torturous suffering and demons and sirens that drag and burn and jeer at the humans who wander there. 

They are oak trees and willow trees, mountain tops and sands watered with blood. 

They are the winds and the rivers that flow through the lands, the snow that covers and freezes, making fires all the more precious, watching their brothers and sisters survive even the most dire of things.

(They watch as they take down caravans and trick Crassus into the ploys and traps and laugh and jeer, eyes glinting with an untold gleam – it was as if the sun was a bird that they held at the palms of their wispy hands, spectrum of fire and snakes and lions) 

They hear the voices singing long before their names are murmured and crowed – they hear the salty tears that fall like raindrops on them, cleansing and humming and it’s as if they are singing their names in return – that of the living, while the dead form circles and link arms, a hymn on their lips lead by a woman who had long been forgotten in rains of blood and visions that hum on sunny days, scorching heat and the smell of dust and death. 

She smiles a quiet smile, like a whisper as she hears her name voiced in the air – and all those that follow. 

She looks at Varro, the man who regarded her husband as a brother above all – she looks at Aurelia, small and strong and vicious yet just – a sister with a heart of gold, with flowers in her hair and gold woven into her hair, black like a raven’s wing,

She hears the laughter and tears of all those who are now her brothers and sisters – she has watched them for quite some time after all – she sees Oenomaus, beaming and proud and so very much like the man whom she has heard tales of from the others, Melitta by his side (her name was not said and yet , she knows she is remembered, a whispering ghost with smiles and wine and yet there is no anger in her, only peace and happiness and the will to lend whatever strength she could to Gannicus ). 

Barca and Pietros are gold and ivory and the ever present whispers of winds amongst them as they watch – Barca looks at Crixus and he, to him and they know, if it was to them to stand amongst the living that they would be honoring the other, as they were brothers amongst all. 

ii.

They remember the hymns of their mothers, what seems to be a distant memory, faint whispers against their minds and yet the words fall from their lips, and it is something that seems to catch on, like the buzzing of bees and hornets it rises gradually, until it is parallel to the roars and cries of those who are of the living, waging war against the gods and the heavens, with demands of rain and blood.

They have made blood rain, made winds howl and mountain cliffs run wild with vines – they have spilled blood to see their brothers to where they are now, they will everything that they can to see to it, that they send as many Romans to their ends as soon as possible.

They watch as they are honored, roaring cries that seem to echo that of the arena that those who have known the games – except, there are tears and fire to accompany the cheers, the forlorn cries and a promise of a tomorrow.

(They watch as Agron is reunited to those who still walk the earth, watch as he is broken and bloody and utterly damaged and yet when he says ‘Duro’- his brother rises and there is a fierceness that no one would question – they would be reunited soon, or perhaps , Duro believes that there may very well be a small silver of hope that his brother escapes the jaws of death. It wouldn’t be the first time that he would have angered a raging beast, and yet, he’s still alive – and yet, there is something worth beating in his chest.)

Duro watches as Nasir becomes the healer and caretaker again – the ghost of a brother’s name long lost is on his lips, and yet his eyes reflect the fire that burns, of a man who has lost and loved and had been given a chance – he thinks, Agron has someone to live for, someone who can piece him back together after the nails and wood and the wind knocked out of him.

He thinks of ‘ _This time I save you, brother_ ’ and he smiles because Agron does not need to be saved – Nasir will save him, Nasir, and everyone else , of his kinsmen – the man called Lugo, the woman called Saxa who fights and bears her teeth at everyone and yet she will protect, will nurture with her knives and her sharp tongue, of Naevia – a woman who is cloaked in blues and greys and she deems herself a ghost of who she was and yet, he looks over to the Gaul who has trained with him, kicked him and spur him to try and fight, and he thinks she will yet live, for the fire to live is in her, and if she was to fall, the rebels would surge forth and protect her as they once did , circled around her as she fought a demon in the form of living flesh – whose silver tongue and lies managed to destroy so many before her – they had watched with baited breath, watched as she fell and snarled at the man who deemed her so weak.

(Do not lower guard) 

He thinks she will rise and the crows and ravens will come to her call, come and storm the skies in a storm of knives and swords and spears and arrows .

(Taught by Mira, a smile on her face as she watches and hums an old song that she remembers from her childhood – of a kingdom where no one was chained and bound, of women and men who rose to fight, brothers and sisters in arms with fire and mythical monsters who come to their beck and call – perhaps she was simply dreaming of what she sees in store for Rome, for she trusts her brothers and sisters, trusts them to make Rome tremble and fall to ashes). 

Chadara watches and thinks, a hymn upon her lips like wine and honey and she thinks that Nasir as grown from the wild dog that they called him.

She thinks he is a wolf now, and she beams with pride, tapping her hands to the beat of a song that she does not remember and yet it seems as if she knows it – her spirit can feel it, a sense of camaraderie, as she looks over to Mira who smiles at her and there is a gleam in her eyes as well , for they know the song.

It is something that the winds and the rains have taught Sura, and she in turn, has taught them.

They watch as the Romans fall , the fire burns and perhaps the gods will truly tremble.

Sura watches, with a sad smile on her face and yet, the woman in red piques her curiosity – Laeta, her name was – she is wise and yet, there is a kindness to her. Perhaps that is why her husband has been drawn to her, but perhaps, there was something more to her – something like a fire that seemed to light up and ignite in her. She is a Roman branded Fugivitus, and yet Sura calls her sister and a prayer falls from her lips to the woman in red. 

 

Diona watches as Naevia fights and part of her remembers the sands of the arena, the scorching heat of the sun upon her back – she watches and the words of the old forgotten gods of her childhood come spilling from her – for each swing of Naevia’s sword, Diona links hands with Sura and Melitta and Oenomaus, with Mira as well for they have all taught the woman who fights as a true warrior – Auctus laughs but nods for he understands, perhaps, in some sort of way – he understands the need for revenge and vengeance and yet there is a small part of him that scorns the woman – but who was he to judge, for they all had their demons that took plague against them. 

When Tiberius falls there is a roar that is enough to shatter a mountain , for the girl Kore has truly balanced the scales, and they laugh and jeer and drink wine for the girl is brave and she sacrifices herself, goes back in the chains that the little imp has forged to his father, goes back and watches as the words 

‘From now on, you shall call me Dominus’ 

Fall from his lips and they snarl in disgust , for what she did was right and he was blind to it.

(Sura thinks of a hymn to protect the girl, but they are the dead, they are not gods or deities who can intervene, they can only watch and pray and hope, for the damned that live to win). 

iii.

They join hands as brothers and sisters, and the air seems to crackle and tremble with fear – they know that Rome will come, and it will be a crashing wave that may very well sweep away those of the living into their loving arms.

Perhaps it will be a victory, of fire and blood and the hymns that fall from their lips grow louder and louder.

Dawn rises, the skies clear – the storm is coming.

(The rebels march and it is a fire that blazes to their cores for thso who have parted are with them.)

They are not alone, for Rome has sent its legions, but they will not fall, for they can taste freedom on their lips.


	4. Red Serpents and Forget Me Nots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victory and Red Serpents, or rather, the bitter end with wisps of promise dripping like rain after days of drought and misery.

i.

 

It is the stormy skies, the fires blazing and scared Roman shits who cower and cry in the shadows of a man.

They do not know of his face – his name is enough to tear into their throats and rip out their sense and courage, instead they fill themselves with poison and shit and cower in fear.

Gannicus laughs, fire burning and swirling and the ever haughty laugh of a _god_ and yet the words slip through, small ripples that eventually pull into an ever storming ocean.

 

_I am Spartacus_

 

Lugo thinks that this is what it must be like to be Odin, swinging his hammer and striking these Roman fucks from this life while the sparks flickered and flew like little firebirds turning into ash.

 

_I am Spartacus_

 

He is the favored son, the boy who grew into a wolf , whose grace and dance with the spear leaves all those who underestimate him to fall to the afterlife. He laughs as he snarls the name that dances on his lips like a feather light touch.

 

_I am Spartacus_

 

He is atop of rock and rubble, a rain of Roman blood as his swords gleam and glisten with blood, and there’s a maniac dance in his eyes. It is as if he is possessed - _He can hear the crowd’s chanting and roaring, like caged animals as his swords drop to the arena and the rain hits his face, gently as if it is Sura who comes to whisper to him in his dreams_ \- and yet he grins as he howls the name that is not his but it is one that the Romans have tossed upon him, for the man before the arena is long dead.

 

_I am Spartacus_

 

Ii.

Lugo is fire and metal and he thinks perhaps now he can move on and be carried off by Valkyries, off to Valhalla where he will fight and feast and drink all the wine that he can possibly hold in his stomach.

He laughs as the fire eats him alive but he takes a few Roman fucks with him as well.

(Naevia sees and he burns burns burns, bright like a star, for such a little man to be struck down by men with swords and fire, and yet he snarls like the giant that he is and keeps on fighting until the last breath is choked out of him and it is blood and smoke and ash that she sees, and she panics , for she is Death and yet she never wanted to see these brothers and sisters fall. )

There is a strangled cry in her throat but she is told to help those who are falling, help them and fight and fill the ground with Roman blood and so she does.

When Lugo falls he wakes up to the sound of cheers and cries and he sees Donar and he thinks he has come to Valhalla except there is a woman there with raven black hair and kind eyes , serpents trailing after her and yet she kisses him on the forehead and he understands.

He sees Mira and she hugs him tightly, as he picks her up and swings her around, flowers in her hair that are thorns and poison all rolled up into one and he thinks she is Njorun, with the bow and arrow and the mountain which she gave her lifeblood to.

He sees Oenomaus and they hug as well, a fond smile on their faces as they clasp each other on the back and he thinks he understands.

“You are family.”

(He sees a young boy with dreadlocks and there’s an uncanny laughter that reminds him of Agron . He remembers the name ‘Duro’ and thinks that this is the brother who has kept watch for all this time)

He holds hands with Mira and they watch the rest of their brothers and sisters, watch Nasir and Agron, watch everyone.

(The sycamore trees whistle and hum but Sura burns brightest, for this is the final battle, the war of the damned)

 

iii.

When Naevia falls, she remembers opal necklaces and the red of Domina’s hair, the sounds of a crowd screaming as Diona is tossed into the arena, hands shackled and eyes weary, tired.

(Broken, battered, shattered)

She remembers the mines, the torture, the hidden smiles and flower laced words that graced her ears as countless crows flew overhead, and she wondered which one would be coming from Capua, where Crixus was.

(Was he even alive?)

She would claw at the mark of her Domina (a woman whose name she dares not to utter, for she cannot account what rage she would be thrown into if she did) in attempt to get it off of her, get the mark that tainted her very existence away from her.

She’d cry and harden and it took a mountain to free her from her chains, trembling like a rabbit to be skinned for dinner, served with cheeses an fruit .

She remembers his hesitant touch, the snipped and curt comments that she made when he first took interest in her , a delicate pretty thing and he was the Undefeated Gaul, with all of Capua crowing his name. 

She remembers Diona and Mira, and the Syrian boy to whom she clung to while the forest ran wild with demons and ghouls that snapped at her feet, left her nothing more than nerves and sweat, panting and buried in leaves, the branches of the trees a quiet blanket that blocked out the sun and it was a miracle that she was still alive with then all. 

She remembers branding Nasir with fire, holding him close with a small dagger in her tired hands while Spartacus and Mira stood ready to face what legions Rome had to offer and yet they had nothing to fear for it was Agron and those who decided to follow him and they were alive for now.

She remembers Oenomaus, with his firm voice and gentle smile, nerves and steel all morphed into one and it seemed to make sense.

She remembers the swing of her sword , Ashur's blood spilling on the ground and it is as if she believes that she can fight, continue moving forward even as the steel licks and nips at her neck and and freezes a moment - she sees Saxa fall and she thinks that it isn't fair, but she lifts her face to the sky and she feels the sunbeams kissing it, like the gentle caress of Crixus' kisses and she closes her eyes for a moment and perhaps she can hear him and he whispers that she needs to fight, go out in a blaze of glory, that they are all with her and she stumbles , legs wary and unsteady but she tries, each breath becomig harder and harder to store in her fragile little lungs and she thinks Caesar is a man most deserving to have his head severed from his shoulders but he manages to crush her with the heel of his boots, a sickening smile on hid face as he cuts her down and she thinks that she will be free soon.

(She hears a roar of a god and perhaps now she can sleep, watch with Death as they ride together, as Death cradles her and she paints the sky blue and red and golden all at once.)

When Naevia falls, Crixus and Mira greet her with kisses and smiles, and she holds them both close before noticing the woman who seems to be sitting on a throne of trees and ash and a serpent coils around her shoulders, watching carefully in what seemed to be amusement. 

Lugo laughs and spins her around, calls her little sister and she thinks she is alright , for now.

She sees Pietros and Barca and there are sof words spoken an she fusses over them , a mother who never had the chance.

She is crowned with iron and blood and flowers - lilies painted orange for fire and strength.

When Saxa falls she goes down snarling like a she-wolf, in the arms of a god of the arena and there is a smile for her last words may not be understood by him and yet she can only laugh at the irony of it all.

She is greeted by a flurry of skirts and a armful of olive arms wrapping around her, the scent of mountains and forests and wine engulfing her completely.

"You are never far with your arrows, are you?" she mutters, laughter bubbling over as she kisses Mira on the lips and is hoisted up on Lugo's shoulders for she is as agile as a cat and he is her brother bear, laughing and cursing and she is safe.

She scampers down from his back and watches as a woman approaches her, and there is something odd about her as if she was a Fate or a Fury or a Valkyrie of sorts .

She is graced with a kiss upon her forehead and a crown of metal and firebirds singing, wolves howling and the scent of the sea coursing though her.

She sees Naevia and they embrace, for they are sisters and she had watched her grow, become Death's Queen and she can only beam at her and spin her round and round with the sound of her motherland's songs , old and wary and she may have forgotten the words but Lugo sings along and everything is alright.

iv.

When Castus falls he is greeted with the sound of 'Brother' and a clasp on his back, and it is a sea of souls who engulf him in smiles and laughter.

He watches Agron and Nasir and thinks of a fury and a siren taking down Rome by her hair and he can only cheer and laugh as they come to Spartacus' aid, the bringer of rain slowly fading away as three spears are thrust into him and it's years of quietly watching her husband that Sura doesn't split the heavens and rain fury down on them all.

She waits and there is a fire in her eyes that is enough to smother the Republic and it is enough for them.

They all watch as the favored son and brother carry his body away from Rome's legions and it is enough for now, to see their leader so bloodied and broken and yet he still draws breath even when the gods themselves laugh at him.

He glances and the end is upon them all yet he knows that one thing stands above all - they either die or live as free men and women and the Republic will fall soon, sacred ground watered by blood that will soon crumble and fall. 

v.

When Gannicus falls he sees his brother and hears the cries of the arena engulf them all. He thinks that perhaps this time they will win and Rome will tremble and fall with the cries of Romans to serenade them off to the after-life and he can only laugh in joy.

Oenomaus and Melitta greet him with warm smiles and Naevia calls him 'Brother' and clasps his arm the way a fellow warrior may and it seems as if all was well in the world.

 

Sura is silent, a quiet shadow of grief and fury wrapped up into one, as she clutched a well worn ribbon that was her charm, a piece of her which her husband would always carry.

 

She watches as he falls to his knees, tilts his head up to the sun's caress and yet it is as if he is the bringer of rain once more, surrounded by the blares of trumpets and the drumming of the crowd's hearts in the arena. He falls and closes his eyes, and it is as if he is willing to die, not knowing nor caring simply acknowledging that little fact. 

They do not expect to see Kore on a cross nor are they welcome to the sound of their brothers and sisters’ cries and screams.

(And yet they know that they are free men and women and that perhaps, makes the bitter grief subside even a little) 

vi.

When Spartacus falls, the wolves howl and the lions roared, the birds sang and Sura rose, a laugh on her lips as she made her way to him and yet there was something sweet and innocent about her, the witch prophet who promised rains of blood.

They watch and there is a hymn on her lips as he kisses her , and it seems as if the rains fall upon those who are still yet living, bringing with them spring and the promise of freedom that falls on their lips with a sweetness that cannot be taken away by Rome’s fires and anger.

They are remembered by the tales that Agron and Nasir tell those who follow with them, and their names are etched in stone, in swords and fires.

They do not fall, even when the Republic does.


	5. Fire storms and willow blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storms come and go, and yet, they are remembered.

i.

The winds howl as the years churn on by, quick as gazelles and silent as the sparrows that flutter through the thicket of the woods, the mountains crumbling and the sands tainted with blood, cleansed with rainwater and the cries of Romans falling to the storms.

(The seas rage, the stone walls crumble)

There is a shift in the earth, the grass grows and withers away, demanding blood and blood and even more blood, retribution for those who have died for their freedom.   
There is laughter among those who watch, wine and iron coursing through their veins.

Years pass, and they are nothing more but phantom memories.

ii.

Agron and Nasir keep their spirits alive, hidden away in the alcoves of the mountain passes and the stories that carry through the wind, of red serpents and Valkyries who tore apart the battlefields, furies and sirens and she wolves, demons and undefeated titans who seemed to make the earth tremble with each of their steps, a dance that only the trees and howls that reached the moon would know and remember.

It is the crackle of the campfire, the shadow of Rome growing slimmer and slimmer, thinner and evaporating in the rays of the sun.

(They tell the stories of Spartacus, a man who was much more than a man – he was a father and a brother, a healer and death, poison and fire merged into one.

He was the fist that steadied the trembling hands, broke chains and shackles, and was present, in spirit, keeping watch over them as they ran, quick as rabbits, towards the light, towards the dawn of new lives and the taste of freedom on their lips) 

They tell the children the stories of the One who Rode with Death, of the Undefeated Gual, the God of the Arena, Oenomaus, and all those who had fallen.

They tell the stories of Agron’s brothers and sisters – of Donar and Lugo, and Saxa , and Sedullus and Nemetes.

They tell of Chadara and Mira, of Marcia and Kore.

(They speak of those who fought bravely, of those who took matters into their own hands, paved the way for the rest of the rebellion to follow through, for Mira’s first strike, bloody hands against white fabric with flowers in her hair, to Aurelia, bleeding and convulsing but Varro avenged, avenged for the death on the whims of a self centered brat who did not know a brother for he was hers and only hers, and that was all that mattered)

iii. 

There were sirens calls and the dreams of mythical beasts ravaging the lands, and so they watch as their bones grew weary yet strong, up on the mountaintops where they raised their goats and harvested their crops and sowed the land with the tales of the arena burning, of gladiators who were beasts and demons and gods of the arena and the women who would turn into furies and wolves and pray vigilantly for the gods to send favors and yet 

They were men and women who strove to be free, and so, they were.

(They rode with death and her legions, with chaos and riots and uprisings. They laid poison and slowly watched from the shadows, watched as the mighty republic crumbled, slowly but surely it slipped away, the foundation and rocks, the blood and bones that it was build on

Broken and watered down with blood) 

They watched, and the children grew to be men and women, who set forth and watched with baited breath, the wolves guiding them by the moonlight and the sparrows whispering in their ears which path to take, to spread the tales and plant the seed of hope.

Soon enough, Agron and Nasir, and Laeta and Belesa and Sybil, and all those who survived the war passed away, quietly in the sunlight’s beams, with red serpents curled around their feet, peaceful and with hope coloring their faces as they burned brightly in their funeral pyres. 

They soon turned to ash, with the wind carrying them away to the sea, where the water roared and danced with the sun , and all was well.

(The children rose to paint the tales, tell them to their children, of the hymns that the sycamore trees taught them, and the mountain helped shape, for the fires that burnt brightest in the darkest of nights, and for the wolves that kept watch, never straying far off, for they were the hope that was left behind.

They were the children of the rebellion, and they would carry on the sycamore hymns, until everyone would sing them to the winds, and the Republic was no more but an old forgotten tale, of ash and bone and a monster that hide in the night, until it was a phantom erased by the sun’s gentle kisses, and

 

_all was well._ )


End file.
